Long Unquenched Poems
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I never called her closer, but they always said:
if it's love, make it known, take a step closer to her,
those who watch from afar write fables and dreams born of longing,
but those who come closer write true stories, full of essence.
But who knows, what seems like the moon from afar may become dust,
light can turn into a sad smile, a dream dispersed,
a breath too close and the illusion might shatter in the night,
leaving only shadows to dance in the sky, like an echo of desires.
I stayed far away, perhaps my love lives in this distance,
like the moonlight that blooms only from afar, enchanted and untouched,
but if I take a step too close, I may find a desolate land,
where silence reigns and life seems just a distant and cold dream.
My love, like the moon, the farther it stays, the more beautiful it is,
so I chose to remain at the edge of the dream where the moon is eternal,
though my heart sings a melody of closeness, the unquenched longing is the essence,
for true stories aren't written only with close and dear souls.
Perhaps my love is a poem written on the endless night sky,
with each verse kept at a distance, so the magic spell isn't lost,
for longing turns distance into an eternal love story,
where moons and stars weave a dance of silent and sweet eternity.
With unnatural restraint he quells his primal urge
Guarding something of himself; half man, half wolf
Languished captive, no hope of escape
The power of love grows stronger still
Helpless, against his own will.
Inflamed with savage desire
He catches a glimpse of her through the trees
With a wildly pulsating heart he rises to meet her
Unquenched desire rises as he lifts his head high
Sorrow overwhelms him as he lets out his howling cry.
He gazes upon her, his savage heart softened and tamed
by her golden flame as he beholds her face etched upon the moon
written by Lori McClure
contest: Wolfman in Love
Dear, It’s What I Am
I am a jealous man, you see,
With passions deep as midnight’s sea.
The restless tide within my chest
Knows neither peace nor soothing rest.
The earth itself, its boundless grace,
Reflects my longing for your face.
The pines that claw the sapphire sky
Whisper your name as I pass by.
I watch the meadows clothed in gold,
Where sunlit grasses sway, and fold,
Each blade a pang, each leaf a cry,
Of love that aches, but won't deny.
Beneath the arch of twilight’s dome,
The rivers carve their path through loam.
Their waters, clear as crystal’s gleam,
Flow with my yearning, stream by stream.
The stars, alight with jealous fire,
Mirror my heart’s unquenched desire.
They burn, they pulse, they fight the night,
Yet cannot claim the morning’s light.
The moon that rises, pale and still,
Holds secrets on her silver hill.
She knows the ache, the quiet plea,
For what you are, and cannot see.
For you are earth and sky and rain,
The joy in beauty, breath in pain.
Each fleeting thing that stirs my soul,
A piece of you, a fractured whole.
You have the grace that wild winds bear,
The fire of sunlight in your hair,
The endless calm of evening’s shore—
And I, in want, can crave no more.
Dear, it’s what I am, this truth must stand:
I am a jealous, longing man.
But jealousy, though sharp its art,
Is born of love that breaks apart.
So let me gaze, though far you be,
At nature’s splendor, wild and free.
For every leaf, each grain of sand,
Holds what I need—your touch, your hand.
If I could speak, if you could know,
The roots of longing buried low,
Perhaps the stars might cease to weep,
And love might find its quiet sleep.
But until then, the world must turn,
While deep within, my passions burn.
The earth may give, the sky may span,
But I remain—a jealous man.
school outing …
prep school day trip -
the Isabella Gardner Museum, Boston …
I round a corner inside,
a sunny courtyard to my left
ahead, an exquisite scalloped arch
sculpted columns on each end
and beyond, softly lit ...
- I gasp, air sucked from my lungs
in the literal sense
my hand clutches my chest,
knees wobbling ...
noticing, someone asks if I'm okay
"physically, yes ... thank you"
(when my breath finally returns)
blown as a mind can be, I'm transfixed
minutes pass, then hours ...
tranquil water, am I -
no ripples, no vacillations
no concern of what’s taking place around me
an entire multi-floor museum -
exceeding artistic genius on every wall
yet the bulk of my day is spent ... right there
entirely and utterly spellbound …
light, dance, music
romance, color, shadow, laughter -
every motion and emotion, churning
I can hear the guitars, the clack of her shoes
feel the heat of el club nocturna, pressing
mind spinning with the feigned haze of absinthe
the waft of cigar smoke and perfume
words stir deep inside me
wound in phrases I can not speak
phrases and fires unknown and unspoken …
and unquenched …
I am but a child -
in the presence of The Divine
frozen to my marrow by the bloom of
resplendent brilliance
my soul, a chaotic milieu of terrifying beauty
and all I can manage,
all I can do ...
is breathe.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Creativity In Visual Arts" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
* This happened when I was fourteen ... art became very real to me that day, as did the phrase "divine Inspiration", thanks to the painting above, by John Singer Sargent. If you've ever seen it in person, (or SO many others!), you know whereof I speak. (Above image is slightly compressed). *
His lonely desert offered no oasis
Until he glimpsed a stream within her eyes
This palm tree of potential love he chases
But kisses set aflame his longed-for prize
The stream he’d found brought him no lasting bliss
It was but a mirage of tears returned
His thirst for true love unquenched by her kiss;
Though seeds of love were sown, their palm tree burned
Though sorrowful, he blames himself alone
For loving her to quench his parched desire
Retreating to the desert on his own
Avoiding love averts another fire
He feels she loved his kiss more than his heart
In ashes, he awaits a brand new start
........
In younger days he’d found no spring nor well
His love-quenched thirst distorted all he knew
Until this songbird settled for a spell
They sang each other strains of “I love you”
The scar of First Love’s fire slowly heals
Their passion’s ashes long misunderstood
In time though, it is gratitude he feels
Towards the one who brought his life such joy
Though blinded by her passionate affection
His blindness he could scarcely blame on her
He learns to break down walls of his protection
With softened heart finds healing can occur
His songbird thus returns; songs fill the air,
Those ashes fertilized the tree they share
Poor White Trash
By
Patrick Kelly
The sun sinks low over shanty town there, a sweating woman sits on a
dilapidated porch.
She sees herself in the eye of her mind and pictures appear of what might have
been.
She retains her rocker and sweats in unquenched heat, unrelenting ferocity of
the beaten down poor.
With a cigarette between chap lips, she fights off the need to cook, her energy
long departed along with the good of life.
In a silent rage, she screams in anguish yet, there is no one to listen and
nowhere to run.
Too suddenly, her hair has turned to gray.
Her beauty, slowly decaying til all is lost.
Now, wrinkles vanquish the smooth complexion of her youth.
No longer does she smell the sweet aroma of her bed, its luster gone, along
with her pride, with too much despair and too little money.
Sometimes she walks the old dirt road, waiting for the heat to burn off and the
night to embrace the coolness of the late hours.
She dreams of things that might have been before youthful lust became a
nightmare.
She could have walked in beautiful gardens, her home, a pleasure to herself and her one time proud spirit.
She wills the madness to subside, her thoughts splintered upon her return to
realization and the unrelenting heat, dirty dishes and that drunk she calls a
a husband.
Wiping a hand across her sweaty brow, she turns to retrace her steps to her
lowly shelter and the realisation that she is poor white trash.
Lure of mirage
in deranged dunes,
dances in
dandelion rhythm
with oasis dream,
illusion inscribed
in sane sands of time,
sliding continuum
with desiccated travail,
thirst unquenched,
stimulus perpetual.
Dormant despair
usurps harps of hope,
vibrato dissipates
unperceived,
wisdom shroud
unfurls crafty chimera
in life of actuality,
awareness imbibed.
Stifling shadow
of ebony anguish cloud
creeps remorseless,
dissension darkness drips
opaque desolateness
on listless landscape,
mangled in
strife maelstrom,
mind sucked within
hope vortex,
umbrage unushered.
Silver spectrum
of lines transient
in acumen cloud,
splits into colors
of radiant reverie
in optimistic prism.
Convoluted canvas,
carapace conjured
for contorted hideous faces,
turning in a trance
into baroque frescos,
flicker of beauty
sparkles sneaky
in conceived smile.
…beholder, the painter.
Do not play with love, nor with the seeds of unquenched longing,
For in this war of souls, you are destined to lose,
And when you will try to touch me, to catch me in your gaze,
You will feel in your veins a storm, my wild love, a hurricane that does not extinguish.
You will cry in silence, asking for salvation that will not come,
Your soul will be a bleeding wound, a pain without end.
So is the fight in the war of love, a lost battlefield,
I warned you, my dear, love leaves deep marks, scars that do not heal.
Better leave now, do not cast your eyes towards me,
I have put on armor on my shoulders, ready for the battles to come.
I stand for a while in doubt, which dream to choose as refuge,
But I assure you, it will not be one where you will find shelter.
Do not play with love, do not dare to call my horsemen,
Don't you see that for you it would be too late already?
My love is a war where there is no victory,
And if you dare to enter the fight, you will lose more than just a simple desire.
Every step on the field of this love is a lost fight,
Where every breath becomes a battle, every look a confrontation.
In the world of my love, the war never ends,
And if you choose to step in, prepare to lose everything, in this love, in this dance of unfulfilled desire.
Oh fair and fiery beauty,
In your gaze, the stars align,
A spirit brave and wise beyond your years,
You wear your heart, a gem divine.
In whom calm and grace abound,
Your laughter dances on the air,
A gentle strength, a soothing sound,
Your weakness is no more than love, laid bare.
If only I were a romantic,
I'd gladly be a fool in love,
For your sake, I’d be called Romanus,
In the heavens, you fit like a dove.
Graceful, as the dawn's first light,
Passionate about knowledge, a thirst unquenched,
Respectful of the world, its plight,
In your humble wisdom, I am drenched.
Your smile, both reassuring and taming,
A beacon through life's winding maze,
Your presence commands attention, ever framing
The essence of joy in each passing gaze.
Few recognize your playful, simple ways,
Yet beneath the surface, a profound soul lies,
A mindful spirit that tenderly sways,
An old soul indeed, wise beyond the skies.
You see through people, their hidden fears,
With a gentle heart, you mend the fray,
Administering our home with strength that endears,
The poise of twenty wives in your ballet.
Oh Lady Aya, my love, my muse,
In your embrace, I find my peace,
With you, my heart will never refuse,
In this life, our love shall never cease.
The sky sings soprano,
spellbound by supernova flares,
and I sigh ~ veiled in vengeance ~
pursuing cosmic conquest,
hauntingly unafraid.
I feed the vortex with vicious verses,
bleeding into leading winds,
salt-glazed passion gripping my pulse
as light rests along
midribs of merciful emerald,
feathers blooming into blue-moon rarity,
cloaking the cadence of my soul
when my heart grows heavy with its hurt.
I remain ... starved ...
of sensuous sunlight ~
to photosynthesize my sphinx spirit,
to chlorophyll my
femme-fatale fragrance,
vowing an oath to my muse:
the steady twigs of living cosmos,
the glistening gardens
spilling across the guardians of galaxies,
kissing inked essence with searing sparks
that awaken my desire to dance
through nocturnal night
into dreaming dawns ~
an indomitable storm,
too ferocious
for cynical hands to worship.
Still I stand ~ shameless ~
at the altar of adoration,
where love becomes a painted promise
defining the delicacy of my design.
But why does it feel like a divine curse
to perceive the tremors of time,
to taste the tears of unseen rain,
as empathy drains the empyrean
from an enlightened intellect,
and telepathic twilight trembles,
breathless ~ blazed ~ baptized ~
beneath the weight
I hold within my veins ~
for I feel every ray of darkness
d e e p e r
than your dusk could ever behold…
O blue-rose, ethereal warmth,
I am the chosen feeler,
the zealous healer
of wayward wanderers,
seducing the quivering thorns
of unquenched silence.
I heed what the lips
of the eyes cannot speak.
I rise fully awake
within this celestial transformation,
where this fervent force
stays dangerously unconcerned…